From a man, who was standing beneath the shade of one these noble trees, information was obtained that the horsemen had ridden along the Harrow Road. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. At length, I shall ascertain my name. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. However, I daresay that we shall come across one another before long. Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. Pull yourself together, Annabel! I must have the truth.
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